


where i can't follow

by anti_ela



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Reapers are not Angels (Supernatural), Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2013-04-11
Packaged: 2017-12-08 03:22:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/756439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anti_ela/pseuds/anti_ela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“i would say it’s not your time, but you never cared about that, did you?”</p><p>he smiles at her. “would you believe me if i said i just wanted to see you again?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	where i can't follow

“i would say it’s not your time, but you never cared about that, did you?”

he smiles at her. “would you believe me if i said i just wanted to see you again?”

“dean.”

he huffs out a laugh. “thanks for coming, anyway. i didn’t want it to be a stranger.”

tessa reaches out a hand and caresses his cheek. “of course i came for you. of course i wouldn’t leave you to another. i’m your reaper, dean. don’t you know that?”

he leans into her touch and closes his eyes. “i guess i forgot.”

“are you ready?”

he turns his head and presses a kiss to her palm. if she marks the tears on his lips, she does not say; nor does she comment on the quiver in his voice when he says, “always.”

she gathers him to her, every speck of dust and light, and when she kisses him she fills it with cold beer and the smell of the sun on the impala and sammy’s laughter and every good thing in his world. he clings to her, and small thing that he is, almost she thinks she could leave him like this; almost she wants this not to end.

but she is not cruel, and as apology, as confession, she whispers into him, “it doesn’t have to be heaven if you don’t want it to. or hell, or purgatory, or restless waking. it doesn’t have to be anything—you don’t have to be anything anymore, if you don’t want to be.”

he is so small, so pure now, that she can feel each thought skip across his surface. but when the ripples settle, he says, “i’ve got somebody waiting for me.”

“are you sure?”

another laugh, though this one’s broken. “no,” he says. “but i can’t leave him there alone.”

“alright,” she says. “alright.”

and then she is alone with a body in a seedy motel. she looks at the broken lamp, at the blood, at the gun beside his hand; and the thought of someone finding him like this, of strangers cleaning his wounds, of others looking for his identity and for relatives and for someone to pay for his funeral—

the thought of someone finding his body and dragging him, screaming, back into it—

already, she can feel the next soul calling to her; already she has stayed too long. for the first time in her existence, she feels the limits of a reaper. she closes her eyes and prays.

when He comes, she points to the body, to the blood. and He says, “This is the boon you would ask? This is worth prayer?”

she raises her chin, not trusting her voice.

“Very well,” He says. “I suppose we don’t want some angel collecting his fingerbones, do we? Go on, then. I’ll see to it.”

when the maid comes, there is the gun, and there the broken lamp: but of the man who must have left them, there is no trace.


End file.
